Candles
by pseudononny
Summary: Even when you have nothing, you have to have time to think.


_Author's Note: I named this story without thinking that a song with the same name was featured in the show. No intended connection there whatsoever._

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><p>Sam gently pushed the massive wooden door to the church, wincing at the creaks and groans of the old hinges. Everything was quiet and hushed, and as the door closed behind him, he felt the dark gather around him like a comforting blanket. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust, then looked around to find a spot to land.<p>

He walked over to the soft glow of several rows of red votive candles. The note on the small metal box on the front of the stand read "25¢", and there was a small set of cards in a little holder to the right of the box. Sam picked up one of the cards, a small slick paper thing with a picture of a cross on one side and a prayer on the other. The paper card creased a bit in his fingers, and he was unsure of what he wanted to do next.

The foyer was flooded with light as the door opened, then went immediately dark again as a small figure slipped inside. Sam quickly stuffed the card into his pocket and turned slightly away from the candles to look at the large statue to his left. He heard small footsteps come his way, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tiny old lady light one of the unlit candles. He heard the clink clink clink of metal as she dropped coins into the box, then the low whisper of her voice as she murmured a prayer.

He was tempted to join her, but that would be weird, so he just listened as she finished her prayer, which was even weirder and sorta creepy, and he didn't realize he was holding his breath until he heard the heavy door slam shut as she left the church. He looked back at the candles, feeling guilty for eavesdropping and sad that he hadn't joined in. Even though he wasn't Catholic, he'd learned all the common prayers during his years at St. Joe's. It had been nice to hear something familiar.

He'd been thinking about visiting this church for a couple of weeks, ever since he'd delivered a dozen pizzas to the youth group's Sunday evening meeting. They seemed like a lively group, almost too lively to attend church in the massive stone structure. It was a contradiction, and if there was one word that summed up how he felt about his life right now, contradiction was it.

He walked around the church entry and took it all in-massive statues, colorful dimpled glass windows that dimmed what little light they let in, carved wood panels and smooth stone archways. It was ancient and weighty and so still. He should have felt scared or overwhelmed, but he felt almost at home. The building reminded him of the chapel at his old boarding school, and as he pushed open the interior door to the main sanctuary, he felt the same illicit thrill he used to get when he'd sneak into the chapel to find a little bit of quiet on a crazy day.

The large room's atmosphere was a contrast to the church entry-while there were shadows in corners and crevices, light streamed in through the tall stained glass windows. Sam sat in very last pew at the far right of the church. The dark polished wood was cool and smooth to the touch, and while the seat only allowed him to sit rigid and upright, for the first time in a month he could feel his shoulders relaxing. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and exhaled.

How had this happened?

Just one year ago he'd been excited but nervous about the move to Ohio. His parents had offered to let him stay at St. Joe's so that he could finish his schooling there, but he'd insisted on coming; their family home was only half an hour from the boarding school, which was close enough for him to see them pretty frequently, and as much as he was going to miss his friends and classmates-not to mention the relative freedom of the place-he couldn't imagine being even farther away from his family.

He was also looking forward to attending a new school-a public school, a school with girls and letter jackets and lockers, a school that looked like all the schools he saw on TV. His parents had enrolled him in St. Joe's day program as a child because the local school system didn't seem really interested in helping him deal with his dyslexia. He'd boarded there for the last two years; as he moved into the upper school, he'd felt more and more disconnected from his peers, many of whom had come from places much farther away, exotic places like Utah and Wyoming and one particularly cool dude from Hawaii. Boarding cost so much more than being a day student, but the family could afford it at the time, so they'd sent him.

Sometimes he wished he'd stayed home instead. Maybe their savings would have lasted longer.

As soon as he'd decided to move to Ohio with his family, he became anxious about fitting in. Robbie, his best friend and roommate, had suggested he cultivate a new look to help him ease into his new school environment. Things were different in public school, he'd said, especially with girls in the mix.

"Here, no one cares if you read sci-fi and play on the football team," Robbie had lectured as they walked into the local Abecrombie and Fitch. "In a place like-what loser president is that school named after?"

Sam laughed. "McKinley. The tariff dude." Sam lowered his voice, putting on his best impression of Mr. Jenkins, their pompously dull American History teacher. "The most significant aspect of McKinley's presidency was its role in shaping the modern day operations of the office. He paved the way for the likes of FDR and Woodrow Wilson."

Robbie snorted derisively as he shook his head. "Three words. Spanish. American. War." As they walked into the store, Robbie let out a loud sigh. "I hate this fucking place."

While he didn't hate it the way Robbie did, Sam always felt uncomfortable in the store, the larger-than-life images of half-naked men and women making him both aroused and self-conscious. Directly facing the door was a huge black and white image of a woman in nothing but black underpants, her hands covering her breasts. Sam stared, glad that he'd pulled out the long shirt tails of his uniform oxford after class. Robbie rolled his eyes and grabbed his arm.

"Airbrushed and/or silicone," he muttered as he pulled Sam over to a display of t-shirts. "Still, you're heading into the heart of teen America, so we might as well shop where they shop." He started piling items into Sam's arms, carefully selecting colors from the palette he'd developed for his friend; he'd forbidden Sam to openly wear any of his prized printed t-shirts, at least not until he'd established himself. Sure, it was important to be true to yourself. Robbie and Sam had always been honest about themselves at their school, even when it meant setting themselves against the norm. But Robbie also knew that sometimes you had to hold back a little, to not draw attention to the places where you were most vulnerable until you were pretty sure you'd be safe. Sam's nerdiness wasn't nearly as big of a difference as Robbie's homosexuality, but it hadn't helped him any when he'd switched from day to boarding status, and it took a while for Sam to find his footing in this place he thought he knew.

Robbie added a few new items to the pile Sam was holding, removed a couple of shirts that clashed with the overall color scheme, fussing over the clothing like these choices were of national importance. He wouldn't admit it to Sam, but his heart was breaking. They'd been roommates for 2 years-classmates for 7-and Sam had been the brother he should have had instead of the homophobic jerk that he did. Robbie bit his tongue to keep from getting emotional as he shoved Sam into an open dressing room. Once Sam had closed the door, Robbie leaned against the wall and shut his eyes tightly to hold back the unexpected tears.

Sam stood in the dressing room staring at the stack of clothes. The colors looked nice enough, and as he separated the pants from the shirts, he realized that everything kinda went with everything, which was even better than the Garanimals his mom used to buy for him when he was a kid. This was just like Robbie, he thought-always a step ahead of him, looking out for him. That's how it was between them, Robbie looking for the bumps in the road ahead, Sam always ready to catch his back.

"Robbie?" Sam's voice seemed a bit smaller than usual, and Robbie stood up straight, wiping his eyes and sniffling sharply.

"Yeah. What do you need, buddy?"

"I-I just-"

Robbie heard a gentle thud as Sam rested his head against the dressing room door.

"I just want you to know how much I appreciate your-well, everything about you. Thanks for being my friend." Sam was silent for a moment, and Robbie was desperately trying to think of something witty to say to break the tension when Sam said "I love you. You're my brother, yeah?"

Robbie chuckled as he looked down at his uniform loafers. He needed to get a shiny new set of pennies. "Yeah. Me too."

A few minutes later, Sam walked out of the dressing room in a t-shirt, blue hoodie, and jeans and stood before a full-length mirror while Robbie surveyed his handiwork.

"That'll do, Pig," Robbie said as he patted Sam on the back. "That'll do, that is, once we lighten you up a bit." He rumpled Sam's brown hair, laughing at the panicked expression on his friend's face. "Don't worry. It's going to work. I promise! You'll be fighting them off. And remember: no matter what crap they tell you about his presidency, McKinley was still kind of an ass."

Sam felt a gentle tap on his shoulder and jumped, startled out of memory by the unexpected contact. He turned to see the kind eyes of the woman he'd encountered earlier at the candles.

"Are you waiting for confession, dear? I don't want to cut in line if you're ahead of me."

He was confused for a moment, then realized what she was asking and shook his head. "No, ma'am, I'm not Catholic. I'm just-" He fumbled to find the right words, feeling compelled to give a reason for his being in this place. "I just needed a place to think." He gave her a weak smile which she returned with a nod and a pat on the shoulder.

After she'd gone into the confessional, he rested his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands. Robbie. He hadn't spoken to him in weeks, not since his parents had cancelled their cable, rendering their weekly Skype sessions impossible. Robbie didn't know anything about his financial troubles-Sam had wanted at least one person he could feel "normal" with-and it didn't seem like the sort of thing to say in an email or a text message. He missed his friend, and he hoped that Robbie would forgive him for not telling him about his situation if his family ever got back on their feet again.

He bit down on his lower lip when he realized he was thinking in "ifs" again, and not, as his father insisted on reminding him, in "whens."

Sam sat back in the pew aware that he was no longer alone; between parishioners waiting for confession and those starting to trickle in for the late afternoon service, the church was beginning to fill. He looked at his watch, surprised to see that he'd been there for an hour now, and he still needed to pick up Stacy and Stevie from their after-school program. He was thankful, though, for the time he'd had to sit in silence. With their living conditions as they currently were, he hadn't had much time for that lately.

As he gathered his guitar case and backpack, the woman from the candles exited the confessional and began to make her way to a pew. He returned her smile with a little wave. Robbie had once told him that sharing the things that weighed on his heart made the weight feel lighter. Sam wasn't ready to share this burden, not quite yet; Quinn was the only person at school who knew what was going on, and while she'd tried to be helpful, he found it hard to even look at her in school, his gratefulness for her help at war with the hurt he still felt over her betrayal.

Back in the foyer, he walked over the stand of candles, all of those little lights fighting back the darkness. He fished a quarter out of his pocket, dropped it in the metal box, and lit one of the small white votives. He closed his eyes and thought about his family, wishing and hoping the best outcome from this awful situation. When he was done, he made his way out of the church and into the bright sunlight.

Later that night, after Stevie and Stacy were asleep, he took his notebook, a pen, and his guitar outside to the porch. He strummed the guitar for a while, picking out rhythms till his fingers settled into the familiar chords of his mom's favorite song. He smiled as she slipped out the door and came to sit with him, her voice soft and low as she first hummed, then sang the lyrics. They'd done this one so many times, but the words felt different today, like they were his and his alone. He closed his eyes and listened to his moms voice as she sang to him, to herself, to her family and in all this open space he felt like he was back again in the security and still of that church. When he finished and opened his eyes, he saw that his mom's eyes were wet with tears. He stood the guitar against the wall and hugged her tightly, pushing back his own tears because, damnit, he had to be strong for her and for them, didn't he? After a while she whispered a "thank you", kissed his cheek, and broke the hug as she rose to return to the room.

Sam was alone again on the porch, staring out at the still night. Tiny points of light dotted the darkness, everyone in Lima settling into their homes for the evening. He wondered if his candle was still burning in the church, a little light among many trying to cut through the darkness. He picked up the notebook and pen he'd laid on the concrete and wrote a letter to Robbie.

The beginning was hard, but once he got started, writing it down was easier than he thought it would be. The words looked so stark against the paper, and he felt bad about the mistakes he was sure were in the letter, but in his heart he knew that Robbie wouldn't care; he'd just be glad to know that Sam was alright.

When he was finished, he tiptoed into the dark motel room and got an envelope and stamp from his parents resume pile. Back on the porch, he folded up the letter and put it in the envelope, the cheap grey-white notebook paper a sharp contrast to the fancier cream of the stationery his mom had insisted they keep on hand for when something better comes along. Before they'd sold their computers and printer, she'd splurged on stamps and six months rental on a P.O. box and made many copies of her and his father's resumes. Lately they'd been leaving the house without them, finding that the sorts of jobs they were applying for were less and less connected to the lives the resumes represented.

Sam addressed the envelope, writing the post office box number in the return address spot for the first time. When he was finished, he stared at the letters and numbers, feeling a burning that was part anger, part shame. They'd gotten the box to have a place where they could receive mail-most of it angry bills and rejection letters-but he hadn't thought about how anonymous it all was. He turned to look at the door to the tiny motel room. Number 8. It wasn't that much better than the post office box, just part of the network of temporary stand-ins for the home he had to believe was waiting for them at the end of this dark tunnel.

His head was hurting from thinking so much and from constantly shutting his eyes to keep the tears inside. He gathered his things and went inside, quickly getting into his pajamas before climbing into the cot his mother or father had already set out for him. As he lay in the dark, he thought about life at McKinley and how screwed up-and ridiculous, if he was honest with himself-his quest to be popular had been, and he thought about how much he missed his best friend and the easy comfort of his old life. His thoughts were a jumbled mess-they had been ever since he'd set foot in that quiet church-but as he took a deep breath and exhaled, he pictured that tiny little candle again and heard his mother's voice singing her favorite song, and he fell asleep with the vague sense that things were going to work out fine.


End file.
